French Kiss
by 1angelette
Summary: The English call it a French kiss. The French call it an English kiss. Maybe this is why they can’t agree on anything. Loosely based off of France and England’s uneasy alliance during WWII. Oneshot. Fluff.


**Title: **French Kiss  
**Fandom:** Axis Powers Hetalia  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Character(s)/Pairing(s):** England/France  
**Warnings:** Though rather firmly grounded in characterizations, not firmly grounded at all in history. Some suggestive content – read the title, and after all, there's _France_ in it.  
**Summary:** The English call it a French kiss. The French call it an English kiss. Maybe this is why they can't agree on anything. Loosely based off of France and England's uneasy alliance during WWII. 1000ish words, oneshot.

**Notes:** Livejournal's liverdatt betaed this and made it a million times awesomer. Halflight007 is probably the only person who got here through my journal that'll appreciate this.

This whole World War II thing really wasn't working out, in England's opinion. America kept doing ridiculous things involving movies about Nazis and chocolates. Poor Austria and Hungary were deeply under duress, thanks to Germany and his _Anchluss_. And France…

Well, France was being a nuisance, to put it in a gentlemanly way.

"That is the worst forgery of a signature I have ever seen." England put the piece of paper back onto the table and pushed it away from himself. "No court will accept it as my own."

"Oh, come on!" France protested. He appeared to have not showered in several days, not that he did so very frequently most of the time anyway. "It's just a piece of paper that'll make everything better! I'll stay alive and nothing will change between us, except… uh…"  
"Living in the same house, having to save you from Germany and your own stupid military strategy where the Maginot line is concerned, watching you French kiss Hungary when you think Austria isn't looking… do you think I want any of that? Please." He took another sip from his cup of tea and clicked his tongue disprovingly.  
"Why in the world would I French kiss her?"  
"She's a human being. Knowing you, I doubt you'd need other reasons."

"Non, non, that is not what I meant. What would be at all French about kissing her? Granted, I'm the greatest lover in the world because I'm French, but—"

"Please don't be naïve. You've done it thousands of times."  
"Ah. So you're saying Spain goes around Spanish-kissing girls, and Italy goes and Italian-kisses Germany, and I French-kiss anything that moves, and—"

"Oh, for heaven's sake!" Quickly he put his mouth onto France's. "There. That's a French kiss." He was rather unsettled, but stayed calm. "You eat too much fish."

"Ah. You mean _le baiser Anglais_."

"Wait, the English kiss? What? You haven't got this right."  
"_Oui_, the kiss of the Englishman. With…" He stopped mid-sentence and grinned devilishly.

"Why are you bloody smirking like that?"  
"…too much tongue."

England felt himself flush, but tried to keep a stiff upper lip. "How-how can you say that? And stop _smirking_!"

"_Non. C'est vrai._"

"You're fucking insane! There's no such thing as an English kiss. A kiss with tongue is a French kiss. It's so goddamn simple!"

The other man shook his head. "That's where you're wrong, Anglo-sama."

With that France bit his neck and shoved him against the wall. England kicked a bit, but if he was honest with himself, didn't want to resist very much. He let France push him onto the coffee table and kiss him savagely all over his cheeks, his forehead, his lips. Just when the thought occurred to him to try reciprocating, the lamp on the table fell to the ground and shattered into a million pieces.

"Stop, stop!" England slapped him across the face. "We can't be doing this! It isn't right. Oh, and damnit, I'll have to replace that lamp."  
France stood up and shook his head. "_Non, non,_ I shall. It's the least I can do, _mon cheri_." Smiling smugly, he kissed England on the cheek and went out the door. "_Au revoir!_"

Slowly England got up off the table and sat down, holding the cheek France had kissed. "Wait, what the bloody hell just happened?"

---

A week passed, and he thought his problems with France would be over. He hadn't seen him all that time, and America's propaganda/candy scheme had evolved into a surprisingly effective military effort against Germany involving a great deal of tanks. Then, of course, Thursday came along. England had never gotten the hang of Thursdays.

In the morning he had burnt his toast and stubbed his toe, then later slipped headfirst into a puddle of mud. Furthermore, someone had mistyped his name in _The Guardian_. After typing an enraged telegraph to the newspaper, he rose to leave the study, but saw someone standing in the doorway.

"Oh, not you again," he grumbled.

"You might want to look on your desk," France suggested, pointing.

As soon as he turned around, England's jaw dropped. Lying on his desk was a piece of paper that said on top of it, in incomprehensible but unmistakable French, _Formulaire d'mariage civil_. He was fairly sure what it meant. What made it even worse was how the form was signed by "Arthur Kirkland" and "Francis Bonnefoy".

"Buggeration. Your skill at forging signatures has improved."  
"_Merci_. And there is nothing you can do about it! _Victoire, c'est mienne!_ "

"Oh, wonderful. What on earth will we do now? You're living with me. Germany will be coming after us any second now, and then Japan will probably unleash some nuclear bombs on us, and I'm sure Italy will figure out a warlike use for pasta—"

"I have some ideas." France drew closer to him, but England hit him away.

"No. Just… dear god, no."  
"You didn't even let me say what they were."  
"Do you think I could doubt you for a second? You're _French_. Well, maybe the one with bondage. But no whips."

"If you insist, although I was thinking of a game of cards."

"Liar."

France leaned back. "It seems like this whole marriage thing should work out, then?"

"Don't push me. I'm this close to tossing you into the Channel."  
"_La Manche? Sacre bleu!_ I'll do whatever you say… _Monsieur Baiseur Anglais_."

"How many times do I have to tell you they're the same?" England kissed him on the mouth again; he was starting to get used to this. "See. French kiss."  
France grinned and shook his head. "Oh, you'll work your way up to French kissing eventually, _mon cheri_."

"Don't call me that, darling."

"_Mon dieu!_ You called me darling! We'll be a very happy couple, you'll see."

"This is only for the sake of beating Germany. I'm going to annul this the instant everything is over."  
"Keep telling yourself that. You did say the same thing when my boss Norman visited your house, and then I had my way with you for a century."  
France embraced him in a very inappropriate way, and England started to think that this alliance, however foolish, could have distinct advantages.


End file.
